eshening her frocks--which were
somehow never anything but fresh, no matter how much she wore them. It
was true that there were not very many of them, and that none of them
had cost very much money, but they were fascinating frocks nevertheless,
and she had so many clever ways of varying them with knots of ribbon and
frills of lace, that one never grew tired of seeing her wear them.

The Skeptic sent several pairs of trousers to be pressed and a bundle of
other things to be laundered. I got out a gown I had expected to wear
only on state occasions, and did something to the sleeves. The
Philosopher was the only person who remained unaffected by the news that
Camellia was coming. We envied him his calm.

* * * * *

Camellia arrived. Three trunks arrived at the same time. Camellia's
appearance, as she came up the porch steps, while trim and attractive,
gave no hint to the Philosopher's eyes, observant though they were, of
what was to be expected. He had failed to note the trunks. This was not
strange, for Camellia had a beautiful face, and her manner was, as
always, charming.

"I don't see," said the Philosopher in my ear, at a moment when Camellia
was occupied with the Skeptic and the Gay Lady, "what there is about
that to upset you all."

"Don't you?" said I pityingly. Evidently, from what he had heard us say,
he had expected her to arrive in an elaborate reception gown--or
possibly in spangles and lace!

Camellia went to her room--the white room. This time I had no fears for
the embroidered linen on my dressing-table or for the purity of my white
wall. I repaired to my own room--_to dress for dinner_. As I passed the
porch door on my way I looked out. The Gay Lady had vanished--so had the
Skeptic. The Philosopher was walking up and down--in white ducks. He
hailed me as I passed.

"See here," he said under his breath. "I thought you people were all
guying in that talk about dressing for dinner while--while Miss Camellia
is here. But the Skeptic has gone to do it--if he's not bluffing. Is it
true? Do you mean it? We--that is--we haven't been dressing for
dinner--except, of course, you ladies seem always to--but that's
different. And it's awfully hot to-night," he added plaintively.

"Don't do it," said I hurriedly. "I don't know any reason why we
should--in the country--in July."

He looked at me doubtfully. "But is the Skeptic going to--really?"

"I presume he really is. You see